


The Only Sound

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Deaf Character, Embedded Images, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale Cares Aggressively, Porn with Feelings, Sign Language, loss of hearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles becomes acutely aware of the weight and vibration of his voice in his throat. He knows what volume feels like, and understands the intricacies of modulating it through context clues. If his voice shakes at first, no one seems to notice much.</p><p>Except Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infinidensity (ekaterin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekaterin/gifts), [taylorpotato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylorpotato/gifts), [Malapropian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/gifts), [neoladyapollonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neoladyapollonia/gifts), [Celty](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Celty).
  * Translation into Polski available: [Jedyny dźwięk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9183667) by [winchesters_soulmate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesters_soulmate/pseuds/winchesters_soulmate)



> This was outlined quite a while ago, when infinidensity first came on to the Steter Network Chatzy. They asked for injured!Stiles and I decided on this. Tremendous thanks to taylorpotato, who lent his education in ASL to making this story WAAAAY more accurate. 
> 
> Also keep an eye out for his ASL fic, which is going to be written on my tombstone. 
> 
> Another thank you to neoladyapollonia, celty, and malapropian, who sat in a livestream while I muted myself and read lines from the story to see what a person could potentially lip-read. Bless you, you are angels. 
> 
> On that note, the punctuation for speech and sign is pretty self-explanatory. But if you see it in bold, it's a word that Stiles picked up on.

Stiles has always been a quick study, whether anyone else wants him to understand his chosen material or not. His parents learned quickly that spelling words out to keep him in the dark wouldn’t work for very long at all.

After that, they tried Pig Latin for a brief period, then Polish, which John was apparently worse at than their young son. Claudia loved him dearly, but she couldn’t keep herself from laughing at his accent. Eventually, they resolved to have any private conversations behind closed doors in very hushed tones.

Which led to Stiles learning how to read lips.

He honed his unfortunate skillset every time he had a chance to snoop, reading into strangers’ conversations where other kids made up bizarre circumstances or shrugged their shoulders. He had a taste for the morbid, prying into police business when he came by the station until he was spotted and ushered back to a safer area for impressionable (and troublemaking) young minds.

It wasn’t a skill that people much appreciated him putting to use, but it came in handy now and then. Just never like this.

-

Lydia plans to apply to a select number of elite and prestigious universities, but none of them will ever know exactly how terrifyingly capable she is when it comes to improvising homemade incendiary bombs.

It’s impressive, certainly, but putting it on her applications is more likely to land her name on a watch list than the honor roll. Stiles appreciates the oddity of it, watching from a safe distance and occasionally nudging over a flask or other implement as the need arises.

He’s worked with Lydia enough to know how to help without ‘slowing her down’. He hasn’t met a humanoid yet who could keep up with her, but it’s probably a good thing. He’s not sure how she’ll ease any future partners into late night death wails and pixie exterminations.

That’s what they’re at tonight--a pixie extermination, because pixies, while small and kind of cute, are also razor-toothed jackasses who enjoy the taste of baby flesh. There’s a brutal illustration in the old Argent bestiary of a horde of Polly Pocket-sized winged humanoids stripping a cow to the bone, which provides a pretty strong incentive if there wasn’t one before.

So they set them on fire, because there’s surprisingly very little supernatural tomfoolery that can’t be solved with explosions. Loud ones. It’ll be a miracle if no one from town comes to investigate, Stiles thinks, watching the pixies claw silently at their own skin before falling to the ground, writhing and burning.

The others mill about the clearing, but Stiles watches the inferno with a morbid fascination. He doesn’t say a word as the others see to the aftermath.

Derek goes pale at the sight of it all, and Kira has the good grace to lead him away. Allison motions for Scott to walk with her back to their cars, but he jogs over to clap Stiles on the shoulder first. “You did it, man!” He grins.

Stiles looks back at the others, all milling about and begging off to continue their Saturday plans, salvage whatever they can of the evening. Just another weekend in Beacon Hills.

He studies them, none of them phased in the slightest, and startles when Scott shifts uncomfortably beside him. “Dude?”

Stiles laughs a little and nods, motioning for his best friend to go ahead. He’s fine. They can totally do a movie marathon next weekend. Or the one after that. Or the one after that. It’s no problem at all. Stiles isn’t fussed.

He tosses a similar grin at Lydia, who frowns, but continues on her way.

He waits until everyone else files out of the dying glow of the pixie hollow, and then he starts to shake. He didn’t hear a thing.

“Fuck,” he says. “ _Fuck!_ ”

But he can’t hear that either.

There’s not even a ringing in his ears. Nothing.

The pixies scream, the engines roar, and nothing nothing nothing.

-

-

His first step is to set up a vibe ring function on his cell phone so he never misses an important text. It’s policy, these days. All information up front, right away, no bullshit to prevent another communication failure clusterfuck. They’d learned on their feet.

It’s generally a dick move to leave messages like _PS Isaac your girlfriend’s probably a vampire she totally bit Erica in gym_ or _Heads up Lydia there’s a nutcase kidnapping banshees to bring back his mother-wife_ on the answering machine.

His second step is to rig a visual doorbell in his room, just in case anyone comes in while he is otherwise occupied. His door and window are both connected to an insanely intricate system of moving parts that alert him when he’s about to be caught by surprise.

If he fails to notice, well, he’ll claim some new topic of interest has lured him into hyper-focusing again. It’s not uncommon for him. At first, he’s still jumpy when his father comes to check up on him after work, but he loses the habit quickly.

He internalizes surprise, smiles and laughs good naturedly every single time he’s snuck up on. Because otherwise he’ll start to cry.

He’ll never hear his dad say, “Hey, kiddo” again.

-

Stiles becomes acutely aware of the weight and vibration of his voice in his throat. He knows what volume feels like, and understands the intricacies of modulating it through context clues. If his voice shakes at first, no one seems to notice much.

He can do this. He can keep talking, keeps babbling about late night wiki walks and all of the information he never really wanted to know about. But what else is he supposed to do now? If he focuses on the quiet up there in his room, he’ll lose his mind.

There’s nothing to do but fill his head with words, shape them in his mouth and bite down hard until he tastes blood.

 _I can read_ , he thinks. _I can read_.

And he does. He’s always watching people, always reading the way their mouths move and shape themselves. He’s always on the lookout, because if he can _see_ it, he thinks, then he can _hear_ it in his head.

But lipreading isn’t an easy fix. He’s missing important cues to differentiate words. So much of speech happens inside the mouth, so many clicks and slides and pops that he misses completely for all the cotton inside his skull. He thinks _D, B, T? Fuck._  It gives him a headache, all of the potential meanings that he just can’t catch.

He reads, ‘ ** _Hey,_** _**dude** , I totally **forgot** last night’s **homework**. Can I **copy** yours?’_

(Laughs, slaps Scott on the back. “Sure, dude.”)

He reads, ‘ ** _What_** _**are you** **loo** king at, **Stilinski**?’_

(Frowns, scoffs. But then again, it’s Jackson. Not hard to figure out.)

He reads, ‘ _I’m just **really** **glad** things **are** finally **calm** ing down a little, **you** **know**.’_

(Dies a little inside. Smiles. Nods.)

He reads, ‘ ** _Hey_** _, **maybe** this **time** **we** ’ll **act** ually get **to** **enjoy** h **omecoming**.’ _

(Thinks _not fucking likely._ Smiles. Nods.)

Lydia teases him. ‘ ** _Maybe_** _**I** ’ll let **you** **dance** with **me** **again**. Have **you** **gotten** any **better** at d **ancing**?’_

(Laughs. “I think my rhythm’s gotten worse.”)

-

Eventually he gets a headache from trying over and over, struggling and staring and asking, “Sorry? Sorry?”

If he’s familiar with the topic, he can fill in the blanks.

He can ask people to repeat.

He misunderstands and people roll their eyes. Some of them tell him to piss off, assuming he’s messing with them. Sometimes he focuses _so hard_ on puzzling out what it was they didn’t want to say again.

-

And apart from his sudden hypervigilance--not entirely out of place in a town where pretty much anything could conceivably pop out and try to kill him--no one notices a thing. They’re all busy with their own love lives, their GPAs, their wardrobes, and their practice schedules that no one notices how twitchy Stiles suddenly isn’t.

Every last bit of energy goes into reading the world and pretending it doesn’t scare the living hell out of him. It’s hard, it’s exhausting, and he no longer has the energy to jump and dart around like he used to.

He learns the intricacies of body language, knows when people are lying to him. He reads and reads and reads. People lie more often than they even realize. Stiles does it every day.

His heartbeat doesn’t skip at all.

-

-

The thing about it--the _thing about it is_ that he finally gained some self confidence about who and where he was in this entire hellmouth situation. He wasn’t the strongest or the fastest or the best with a bow and arrow, but he was _smart_ and _reliable_ and _determined_. He was a contributor with a keen eye for detail and a discerning ear.

Now his eyes are just as tired as the rest of them.

He’s scared to sleep.

He dreams, but doesn’t hear. He smells burning insect wings and reads T.S. Elliot and thinks _not with a bang but a whimper_. Except that was wrong, because it was a bang. It was a big, big bang. It’s disgusting.

The pulley system moves and he doesn’t even pay attention.

He picks at his skin and jumps in his seat when a workbook hits the desk by his mouse hand with a light _paff_ of air displaced. He looks at it, confused by the cartoon characters and garish colors spilled all over _A Beginner’s Guide to Sign Language!._

His stomach twists hard and he shoves back from the desk, turning to get a proper look at Peter Hale, standing in his room like absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary. (Other than Peter Hale _being in his room._ )

Stiles opens his mouth, weighing the air in his throat, but doesn’t do anything with it.

Peter makes a motion starting at his temple, like a quick, casual salute in greeting. It is, Stiles realizes. That’s the sign for ‘Hello’ in American Sign Language.

He proceeds to make a series of quick symbols with his hands. Stiles focuses on Peter’s lips as he says, _My name is Peter._ ‘P’ he makes the first sign again, and then continues more slowly, 'E', 'T', 'E' again, then 'R'.

The shaking starts in his stomach, quivering uncontrollably like he’s already been sick over and over and his stomach is weak and full of feathers.

Peter frowns. ‘ ** _I’m not_** _**going** to **tell** **anyone**. **But you should** , when you’re **ready**.’ _

Stiles levels him with a curious look. "Why are you doing this? How did you even...?"

And Peter looks suddenly, unbearably sad. ‘ _My **daughter** had Usher syndrome. **Before** the fire.’_

“Okay,” Stiles says. He feels the tense and release behind ‘oh’, then the soft strike of ‘kay’. “How do I…?”

Peter motions for Stiles to lift his hands, then moves his larger palms to cradle them. He guides them into: ‘S’ ‘T’ ‘I’ ‘L’ ‘E’ ‘S’.

-

Stiles realizes, about a week into these night time lessons, that he misses the sound of Peter’s voice and the way he said his name. They’d been getting along better lately, not _perfectly,_ but better. Where everyone else was impatient and suspicious with Peter around, Stiles took it all with a unique sense of humor.

They had things in common, in an uncanny way. They had a shared attitude between them, conversed easily. Stiles had been learning from Peter before that big bang ever hit. He’d been useful, _special_ , and then _pop._

Now Peter handles him with care and he hates it. He struggles and becomes frustrated. He signs, **Forget it.** But Peter doesn’t take the bait.

Over and over, **Forget it.**

Peter grabs his hands and shapes them, over and over, mouthing the words. _‘Like this,’_ he says. He demonstrates each motion, mouths the corresponding words, like a physical dance, repetitive and drumming where there are no drums.

 **It’s difficult,** Stiles signs.

And Peter says, “ **Tough shit.** ”

He doesn’t show Stiles the sign for it until he practices the one they’re learning, over and over.

Peter won’t accept **I quit.**

He won’t accept **I don’t want to.**

He won’t accept **I give up.**

Stiles googles ways to ask Peter to pick something else, to leave him alone, and to go fuck himself, and Peter just grins.

**You learn fast.**

Stiles doesn’t have to hear a thing to throw his hands up in utter defeat and growl.

-

One night Peter shows up a bit late and finds Stiles staring angrily at a YouTube video on basic sign language for kids. He looks like he might chew straight through his lip.

So Peter tosses the bag he brought up onto the desk and signs, **Open it.**

Stiles glares at the paper bag, and then up at Peter.

**What is it?**

**A clue.**

“Ha ha,” Stiles drones. “ _So_ funny.”

‘ ** _Open it._** _’_ Peter says.

So Stiles reaches into the bag and pulls out...a comic book. He turns it over, squints, and goes to turn on his desk lamp to get a better look at it.

_Hawkeye #19._

“Didn’t peg you for a Marvel guy.” Stiles says.

Peter makes the sign for **Hero.** Then, **Like you.**

Stiles doesn’t know what to sign, so he blushes instead.

-

He reads the comic over and over and over.

** **

-

At pack meetings-- _not the Werewolfsitters Club_ , Derek had insisted--Peter makes sure that he always faces Stiles when he speaks. Every now and then, when no one is looking, he tosses in a helpful sign, whether it’s him or someone else who’s speaking.

If it’s one that Stiles doesn’t know, but Peter wants him to learn, he lifts a loose claw hand and draws it forward into a fist. **Memorize,** followed by whatever motion he intends to teach Stiles later.

If Stiles can’t see the person speaking, Peter mouths the words for him. When no real discussion is going on, Peter will sit closer to him. He’ll tap Stiles lightly if he’s being too loud, help him adjust his modulation if he can’t quite get it himself.

Peter is a good teacher.

Peter pays attention.

Stiles memorizes, repeats, and scoots a little closer on the couch.

-

Every now and then, their nighttime meetings turn into day time meetings. With everyone else busy, it seems almost like an afterthought to go on outings with Peter. They walk in the park and Peter teaches him the signs for things like **bird, tree, run _,_** and, when they spot a businessman yelling abuse into his cell phone near the playground, **rude.**

They spend long days wandering around the town, going from activity to activity on borderline dates that Stiles is hesitant to put his mouth or hands around. Peter places his fingers on the back of his neck, his shoulder, leaving warm imprints and looking closely at the movements of his hands.

Peter has always paid close attention to the things Stiles says and does.

That’s how Peter gets his name sign.

Stiles does his best to sign a loose description of the day’s events, including a conversation with Lydia that left his head hurting badly. He’s still not sure exactly what she was talking about, and he wonders, privately, if it would be easier just to let Lydia know.

But he can’t. He won’t let himself.

Peter frowns. ‘ _She’s **your** **friend**. **Can** ’ **t you** trust her?’_

Stiles shakes his head. It isn’t a matter of trust. He can’t think of the word, and his head is starting to hurt all over again.

Peter sighs, and it’s a full-body motion, shoulders heaving and chest expanding dramatically. He throws his hands up in a _search me_ gesture and says, ‘ _You’re too proud.’_

And that makes Stiles laugh. “Me?”

‘ ** _Yes!_** _’_

He taps Peter’s hands, gesturing for a signed example.

Peter shows him **Proud.**

Stiles laughs and laughs, and Peter asks, **‘ _What_** _is it **now**?’ _

**Your name,** Stiles signs, then makes the sign for **proud** , replacing the ‘A’ handshape with a ‘P’.

He grins as he signs it once, then over and over again until Peter laughs and covers his hands with one of his own. He rolls his eyes, ‘ _All right, I get it.’_

Peter signs **smart** , but twists it outward into an **S.**

-

Peter takes Stiles to the local head shop, which doubles as the local occult store if you ask nicely about the right subject and butter Miss Dolan up correctly.

When he’s not being a subversive jerk, Peter’s pretty good at it.

They gather some useful supplies for Stiles’ magic study, things that Deaton would probably lecture him about for _hours_ before letting him _look,_ let alone touch.

Peter buys him a heavy English translation of an old and well-regarded book of meditations and basic rituals that require sigils and visualization rather than incantation or chanting.

He’s very specific as to what it is they’re looking for, placing a supportive hand on Stiles’ back as he shifts nervously in place.

Warmth radiates from the point of contact, and Stiles realizes that he’s grateful for Peter’s hands.

-

-

Scott and Isaac don’t share the sentiment.

Apparently, they’re walking down Main Street to grab some burgers from Rona’s when they catch sight of Peter and Stiles walking out of ‘that weird-smelling incense shop’ making ‘weird hand signals’.

When she recounts the story later, Lydia sounds as if she’s one step away from putting Nair in both of their shampoo bottles, but she’s not the one who’s in charge of this particular shit-show.

Stiles and Peter are both completely unaware of the coming throwdown until the next pack meeting. Scott sits closer to Stiles than he has in months, and keeps offering him food and calling him _‘buddy’_. Stiles feels like a dog who’s about to be carted off to the V - E - T.

The way everyone keeps looking at him doesn’t help. Except Lydia. Lydia, bless her, sits with her legs crossed at the ankle and her eyes broadcasting bodily harm. She keeps flicking the tab on her diet soda like she’d like to rip it (and someone’s head) clean off.

And then Peter walks in and the shit hitteth the fan.

He saunters in, prepared to make some smart comment about the state of affairs, and gets a face full of Derek’s claws after being slammed into a wall hard enough to stir up brick dust.

Judging by the scraping in his throat and the looks on several faces, Stiles makes an outraged noise, but Derek doesn’t let up. He keeps menacing and pressing, but he’s turned away from Stiles, and Peter’s otherwise occupied.

Stiles can’t see and Stiles can’t hear and he bites his lip hard, looking around at everyone else in the loft. Lydia’s nails are ballet slipper pink and digging into her soda can with a vengeance. Her face softens slightly as she catches Stiles looking at her and she hesitates for a moment before mouthing, ‘ ** _Sorry_** _’._

‘ ** _Derek_** _,’_ She says. _‘ **Let him up**.’_

There’s a whole lot of reluctance. Stiles can read that much from the tense line of Derek’s shoulders and how irritated Lydia looks, but she’s not about to back down, and Derek’s not about to risk his eardrums to an angry teenage bansidhe.

Derek drops his uncle back to his feet and stalks back inside his furry circle of trust. Peter massages his throat, coughing lightly, and shrugs when he catches Stiles’ worried look. ‘ _May I ask **exactly how** it is **I** ’ve managed to ‘ **take advantage’ of Stiles**?’_

Stiles blinks. For real?

They notice when someone spends time with him, but not when he completely loses his sense of hearing? No wonder they keep getting ambushed by the bullshit supernatural parade.

Stiles frowns hard, trying to process what it is that’s going on here, because it’s frankly _ridiculous._ When he glances back up, it’s to the sight of a bunch of werewolves flashing red-blue-green eyes and popping claws. They’re all yelling back and forth, and they’re talking fast. Some of them are turned away. All of them are angry and focused on Peter.

Peter doesn’t seem all that aggravated, but that’s not helping him at all. He keeps saying, ‘ ** _No_** _’_ and ‘ ** _Not really_** ’ and ‘ ** _I_** _**don’t see how** _ that’s **_any_** _of **your business** ’. _And each time, the others come closer and closer to mauling him.

Stiles wants to know what they’re saying, but Peter can’t mouth it for him. He can’t sign it for him. Once again, Stiles _can’t hear_ and he _can’t read_ and he _can’t fucking stand it._

So he takes a page from Lydia’s book, and he screams. “ ** _HEY!_** ”

Everything stops. He doesn’t know if it’s silent in the room by ear, but everyone is looking at him and nobody’s mouth is moving. He takes a deep breath and lifts his hands to sign, **I can’t hear you.**

Peter frowns. ‘ ** _Stiles_** _...’_

Stiles shakes his head. He signs, ‘ **Proud** ’, replacing the ‘A’ shape with a ‘P’. He takes another deep breath and looks Peter in the eye instead of the mouth.

He taps himself on the chest. **I.**

He crosses his arms over his chest, closed fists resting against his shoulders. **Love.**

And then he points at Peter, who grins and shakes his head, but his eyes are smiling and his hands shape Stiles’ name sign. He says, ‘ ** _Little asshole_** _.’_

Finally, for good measure, Stiles extends his middle finger, first to Derek and then to the rest of the pack.

-

Peter drives him home, because Stiles got a ride from Lydia earlier, and he doesn’t want to deal with any of it right now. There was startlingly little resistance on the way out, after everyone shut up long enough for Peter to explain what had happened.

Lydia was quick to back them up, explaining each bit of evidence in a flat, even tone, which no doubt implied every bit of _you idiots_ that she was feeling at that moment. Stiles appreciated it. He just didn’t want to stay.

Derek looked like someone had ripped the earth out from underneath him, but on the way out, he caught Stiles’ attention and signed a quick, **I’m sorry.**

Stiles is so busy frowning out the passenger window that he doesn’t at all expect the hand that comes to rest on his. Peter’s fingers worm their way between his and stay there until they’ve pulled up in the parking garage of Peter’s apartment building.

 _‘ **How do you feel**_?’ Peter asks, but does not sign. He lets Stiles squeeze his fingers as he thinks it over.

Stiles sighs and frees up his hand to make the bursting gesture of **I’m scared.**

‘ ** _Of me_** _?’_ Peter asks.

“Of everything else.” Stiles answers.

‘ ** _Ah_** _,_ ’ Peter smiles his little half-smile. ‘ ** _Would it help if I said_** _\--?’_

He crosses his arms over his chest, fists closed against his shoulders, then taps Stiles’ chest.  

Stiles grabs his hand again and doesn’t let go. Not when Peter leans over the console to kiss him, not when Peter laughs and helps him climb over it to exit through the driver’s side door, and not when Peter leads them up to his apartment.

He has to let go when Peter drags his shirt up and over his head, but then his fingers are tangled up in Peter’s hair, soft and ticklish against his skin. He feels the rasp of Peter’s stubble against the column of his throat.

He feels the rasp of Peter’s stubble _everywhere._

He knows the signs for plenty of things, but he interrupts now and then to demand new ones, grinning like a maniac, and Peter laughs. He grips Peter’s dick and signs, **What?**

Peter teaches him.

He taps Peter’s shoulder between breathy moans as he falters in his strong, punishing rhythm. **What?**

That time, it takes Peter a while to process. He presses his face against Stiles’ shoulder and laughs because this boy is insufferable, but also insufferably perfect. _‘ **What**?’ _ He asks against the skin.

Stiles says, “‘Fucking.’”

Peter sighs and levers himself up, shifting inside Stiles and grinding against that sweet spot that makes him moan and writhe. He positions himself up on his elbows, impatient but not irritated, and taps his hands in the sign for ‘ **intercourse** ’.

Stiles has a giggle fit at the put out look on Peter’s face right up until he pulls nearly all the way out and drives back in with a slow, teasing pressure. Peter bumps their noses together and Stiles sees him say, ‘ ** _Any more questions_** _?’_

He shakes his head, wrapping his arms around Peter’s shoulders and his legs around his hips. They press and grind, slick and hot and tightly bound together until they’re nearly hot enough to melt.

Stiles whines and keens and doesn’t bother modulating himself. He can’t hear a thing, but the noises he makes drive Peter wild. He watches the flex of Peter’s muscles through heavy-lidded eyes, working his hips and digging his nails into the bulk of the older man’s shoulder blades.

“Gonna come,” he pants, and Peter’s head drops once more against his shoulder, teeth digging in but not breaking skin.

“Peter!” he cries, and the thrusts come faster and harder than before, almost punishing in their force. When he finally hits his release, it’s tangled up in Peter’s arms and lips and skin and he doesn’t want to let go.

He doesn’t worry about being unable to hear ‘ _I love you’._ He feels it everywhere that Peter touches.

Stiles reads Peter over and over, and Peter returns the favor.

-

Hours later, completely spent and hopelessly tangled with the werewolf, Stiles taps his lover’s shoulder again.

‘ ** _What now_** _?’_ Peter grumbles, peeking one eye open to hear what Stiles has to say.

 **What?** Stiles signs, and makes a series of ridiculous gestures that seem to allude to _crazy_ and _mind blown._

Peter quirks a brow at him, eyes completely open to watch this particular bout of foolishness. Stiles pouts, then makes the sign Peter showed him for **penis.** He grabs Peter’s hand and guides it to his ass, then makes the _mind blown_ gesture again.

Orgasm.

He wants to know the sign for orgasm.

Peter says, ‘ _If **you’re good** , **I** ’ll **teach you** in the **morning**.’ _

Stiles signs, **Rude.**

But he smiles when Peter tugs him in for a kiss and tucks his head under Peter’s chin to settle in for a proper night’s sleep.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The images used in this fic came from google. 
> 
> The comic book referenced (and depicted) are from Marvel's recent Hawkeye series, which I adore. <3  
> The image is from #19.


End file.
